


Thieves, Sneakery, and Plot Thickening

by Flustered



Series: Death's Crusade [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Angst, Anxiety, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Evil Albus Dumbledore, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentions of Suicide, Metamorphmagus Harry Potter, Molly Weasley Bashing, Multi, Potions Master Harry Potter, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prankster Harry Potter, Ron Weasley Bashing, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flustered/pseuds/Flustered
Summary: If Harriet thought going back to Privet Drive was going to be the worst thing to happen to her this year, she was wrong.  Sick, thrown onto the streets, and with no means to support herself, it was pretty alright. At least she had freedom. Compared to the determined twins who still are on the war path to find her, it still wasn't dreadful. They didn't know it was her, and she planned to keep it that way.No, the worst thing was somehow, in some horrible twist of fate, Snape found her old potions book with her notes inside, and is leaving no stone unturned to find the owner...(Oh, and there is something petrifying students and whatever. That's Neville's job to deal  with it.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Fred Weasley/George Weasley, eventual - Relationship
Series: Death's Crusade [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588111
Comments: 71
Kudos: 314





	1. Prologue: In Which We Are Under New Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for not posting this beforehand as I had planned, December was crazy busy for me because I eloped! Anyways, book two of my wild series is starting to come out. I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> Warning: mention of suicide in prolouge. Watch out for dinosaurs as well.

This book begins, and ends, with an _obliviate._

* * *

A goblin was in trouble. He wore a velvety tunic with a long ruffled collar around his neck. The kind that one would have seen long ago, in the time when the theatre was open for the common folk, and when one squib named Shakespeare once charmed the muggle world with his inventive words. To the goblins, it was still in the height of fashion, and only those who had enough gold, as well as fortunate hired axes, could still wear them. And Bogrod, the account manager for the Potter and Black fortunes, was one of those lucky beings. Although right now, he wasn’t as kempt as he liked to be. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he patted it with a handkerchief as he kept a fast pace towards his office.

He walked through the hallways of Gringotts bank, passing by multitudes of other fae and fair folk that lived under the protection of goblins. This was the deepest part of Gringotts, where no wizards or witches were allowed. It was where most goblins also spent their lives. Where they dug out their homes and had their families and their wives with babies in their arms, welcoming them into their small and quaint dirt-floor huts. It was deep into the hive of the goblin city. Protected by every piece of magic they could get their hands on, and by some magic they couldn’t as well. It was one of the most protected places for magical denizens in the world.

Bogrod did not care for this section of Gringotts. He didn’t care for the annoying amount of smaller creatures, whether goblin-children or fae, that zipped around him. He didn’t like how there were so many beings living on top of everyone here. He didn’t like the filth and the muck that accumulated through these areas, although it was cleaned daily.

There was a sneer on his lips as he stepped into a pile of mud, dirting his shoes. Disgusting! Bogrod shot a particular goblin-child, a horrible look as he passed them, making the kid shy away from him. Good. He didn’t like other goblins. He didn’t like other magical creatures at all! The only thing Bogrod cared about was his well being and his financial status.

And one of those was in jeopardy now.

Thus, this was why he was taking a shortcut through one of these hum-drum areas instead of taking a sensible path to his office. He had received a letter. A few letters, in fact, and it was beginning to worry him. He passed through the final warding stones, and into the towering marble hallways of the bank. Where they dealt in business and took the stupid wizards money. He passed through the guard checkpoints with ease. They hardly glanced at him.

And finally, Bogrod came to his office. He stomped in without a word, slamming the door behind him. Runes lit up as they activated, securing his office and preventing any unwanted listeners. Bogrod had made them himself, as he didn’t trust any half-wit goblin who wanted a galleon. His sweat had fallen into his ruffled neck collar, making it sag sadly around his neck. The walk to his office was longer than he had wanted, and he was in a foul mood due to the exertion. But more importantly, he felt rather antsy for his life was on the line. If the goblin nation found out about his deals, then he was dead. More than just dead, actually. He had seen what the goblin nation did to those who broke the rules. And it wasn’t a peaceful way to go.

“You have received my letter.” Bogrod sat on his chair without a word to his guest. “Then you know what you must do. Return the cloak. And whatever filth you took on your last ‘trip’ through the vaults.”

Dumbledore sat in his chair, looking to the world as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His periwinkle blue eyes glinted in the firelight, and his bright magenta robes did not disguise the calculating look in his gentle face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand?” Dumbledore held out a parchment that Bogrod himself had sent out the day prior. The goblin knew exactly what it said, and he didn’t care enough to read his words of warning. “What brought this on? I thought we had a deal. Why would they audit the Potter vaults without good reason?”

Bogrod gave a great sigh. The crux of the matter. “We do have a deal. Until a few weeks ago an alarm went off in our storage. The dragon had caused some damage to some of the deeper vaults, nearly destroying some. We’ve had a team of our experts going through and recounting any items that may have been damaged or lost. The Potter Vaults have a chance of being gone through. Not a big one, but they are doing random audits of ancient vaults to see if they had been affected. If they note that the cloak is gone without it being on any official documents, they will do a deep internal investigation.” His gnarled fingers curled at the very thought of it. The investigation department was to be feared.

“Which will uncover, undoubtedly, our illicit exchanges.” Dumbledore replied dryly. “Oh dear.” The office of Bogrod was one of the few places that Dumbledore dropped his old man act. Or perhaps Bogrod had seen enough of Dumbledore’s cunning side that he could never unsee it. He knew exactly what type of wizard Dumbledore was. The one that played the chessboard on both sides.

Dumbledore didn’t seem to be concerned at all with the news. “It isn’t just my head that’s on the line here,” Bogrod accused Dumbledore. “Once they see the transcripts of our payments to your vaults, _and_ see the countless artifacts that you’ve _borrowed_ over the years, they’ll howl for your head too.”

“But you are forgetting, my dear friend, they cannot do anything to me. They can contact Wizamagot. But past that, the law is in my hands. And I can make this complaint go away. I might have to use another bank to hold my money, but that is all.” Dumbledore replied coolly. “As much as the Goblin Nation would love to take my head, by the agreement of the last war you cannot so much as touch me without breaking the treaties. I am still a Lord, and that still gives me protection. The contracts we signed are still binding, and so I have nothing to lose.”

Bogrod surged to his feet, “and what about me? Hm? To just leave me and die? You said you were taking the invisibility cloak out to borrow it, to just research more about it. Not to take it permanently. Do you remember me, the goblin who gave you a ludicrous deal when I helped you sign those marriage contracts, and when I gave you lee way in gaining magical guardianship over the heiress brat?” He hissed each word out, “is your research that important to lose your one contact in Gringotts? Bring back the cloak. The other artifacts aren’t important to be traced with a papertrail. But the cloak has to be tracked every time it leaves.”

Dumbledore stood, sighing. “If I had known that you were summoning me to gripe about our past deals, I would not have come. You are not, in fact, my only contact here. I have several. As for the cloak, I don’t have possession of it anymore. I gave it away.”

“You,” Bogrod croaked, “you gave it away? That artifact is priceless. Why?” The floor beneath his slightly muddied shoes was crumbling. And somehow his collar sagged even further down, as the weight of the fear of his past deeds settled on Bogrod’s shoulders. 

“Do not fret, my old colleague. It was for the greater good. It’s all part of the plan. Now, I am glad for you to bring this to my attention. I will use my influence to make sure the investigators do not look into the Potter vault.” Dumbledore strode to the door then paused, “for a price.”

“How much,” Bogrod asked miserably. Working with this wizard had been one of the worst deals he had made in his long lived life.

Dumbledore looked back at him with a greedy glint in his eyes, “for quite a lot, I’m afraid, old friend. Quite a lot.”

* * *

There is a place that is both nowhere and everywhere. Within shadows and light, and the space between the air and sound. It is all encompassing, yet nowhere to be found. It is a very rare place, indeed. For only a few beings known to all mankind could make their way in that secret hidden area. It was unheard of for a meeting to be called there.

And yet, it happened.

Fate was furious. “How dare you!” She hissed out, her ire aiming at a figure wreathed in shadows. “How dare you circumvent my predestined plan? I have a step by step schedule that I follow at all times, and you just like to throw me off!” She threw her hands into the air. “I cannot believe you!” She was a lovely lady, if a mortal had caught sight of Fate, they would have confessed their love for her within moments. Well. Maybe once, a long, _long,_ time ago they might have. Black hair curling around her lovely face, but with her duty wrinkles and a pinched expression had found their ways carving into her once pristine skin. And scowling at Death wasn’t helping her beauty, either.

Death lounged in his throne. It was made of bones and rippling darkness, it towered above his form. It was the largest seat here, something that Death personally made sure of. After all, he wanted to be the most imposing and frightening one out of all of them. Plus the added benefit of winning the dick contest against Time. Death lazily laid across his throne, his robes draping falling onto the stone beneath him. It began to crack and disintegrate, but within a few moments time reset itself, and the stone became whole once more, only for the cycle to repeat.

One hand was brushing his bony fingers on his robe, the other loosely gripping his scythe. _“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”_ He said smugly, because he knew exactly what Fate was talking about. His new little _apprentice_. Already he was seeing the beautiful blessings of taking her under his metaphorical (and yet literal) wing. Who knew one little mortal could cause so much havoc. Already, pulling away the other heads of their respective businesses was causing a tremendous amount of chaos in the systems. Death, Time, Fate, Destiny, and Magic were all called together to have a little ‘talk’ about Fate’s sudden charges that she was pressing against Death. She was suing him for the rights of the universe he took.

Fate was going to have to fight dirty to try and get it out of Death’s clutches.

“You don’t-” Fate had to stop and take in a deep breath. And slowly, she let out an angry breath. “You know perfectly well what you’ve done.” She gave him a shaking smile, it came out more like a grimace. “You stole from me.”

Death let out a horrified gasp, holding one bony hand to his chest. _“Well, I never. Fate, are you accusing me of stealing from you? I would never do that. You are my dearest colleague, perish the thought!”_

Destiny let out a hum at that point. Her flower crown bloomed, and butterflies appeared over her head. She took the form of a mortal hippy, from the era of the 1970s. Decked out in the typical clothes of that time, she was on a floating cushion which she sat upon in a meditative pose. Long blonde hair floated above and around her form, with the exception of whatever was bound beneath a red headband wrapped around her forehead. She opened one glowing white eye to gaze at Death, and with a surprisingly deep reverberating voice said, “ **bullshit.** ”

“I don’t have time for this,” Time then said. He was staring at a pocket watch in his hand. An old man, dressed up in long flowing robes. He sat upon an aged old tree, which steadily grew and shrank as time fluctuated. “Get with it you two.” He had no noticeable features, and if he had them, they were washed away within seconds before reforming. Still, Time did prefer to stay in an elderly man’s form. Death thought it was because Time could complain to his minions about his weak knees. 

(Magic watched without saying a word. They were the stars at night. The sunrises in the morning. They were the moments that took your breath away from seeing the beauty around you. They were the warmth of the fire on a winter's cold night. They were the beads of water slowly inching down a cold glass of lemonade during a hot summer day. They were the slow motion of a rocking chair, the comfort of a blanket’s weight, the delight in a dog's tail, and the beauty of a newborn's eyes. That was what Magic was. 

They were the tender moments that made you think of how good life was. The nostalgia of childhood games. The simplicity of a child’s mind, and the happiness that lied therein. Magic wasn’t just the ability to change frogs into cushions, they were in every living thing that lived and died. Muggle or magical.

They were the memories that rushed back into you as you saw an old picture, the bittersweet love you feel as you remembered a long-since passed loved one. They did not have a physical representing form, but they were watching the meeting. They were the only one who did not have an organization that helped keep the balance of the universes in check. For they loved their job, and did it by themselves. They would never step away and let others try their hand at it. Magic was loving.

They watched as Death and Fate fought. So, so curious. And Magic wondered if they knew.)

“You used an old clause that didn’t even apply to the universe in question! You took it from me without any grounds.” Fate accused Death. Her black hair whipping out as she pointed an accusing finger at him.

 _“I did not. The clause states that I may take whatever universe that calls out to me. Specifically me.”_ Death retorted, folding his arms and cocking his head upwards.

“It didn’t!” Fate pointed out, “nobody called out to Death. Nobody said, ‘hey Death, please steal my soul away.’ It didn’t happen! It’s invalid!” 

_“Well if you say it like that,”_ Death pouted. _“Then no. But, you forget that the whole cause of this situation was that one of my toys was dying. And by your laws, Mod’s are not allowed to die. Therefore, when the baby Potter soul was crying out as it was being smothered to, heh, death by her magic, it called out for release. Thus, it called out for me. The soul of Potter, which I cannot steal by your powers, asked for me by my name.”_ He paused, his bony fingers tapping on his scythe, _“I believe she said, “hey Death, please release me from my mortal coil.” But I could be wrong.”_

“He has a point.” Time said, “you were the one who brought in the Masters-,” he faltered when Death stared at him with menace. Death was still furious about the title that Fate bestowed on the mortals. Thus, the acronym of Mod was to be used at all times. Or else. 

Time coughed and continued. “Uh, you brought in the Mod’s. You did sync them to Death’s power. They are his, and if they called out to him specifically then it works.”

“Souls don’t ask for things!” Fate exploded. “They don’t have the power to do that. Death, your story is utter bullshit.”

 _“Perhaps mortal souls don’t. But my things have… personality. I should know.”_ Death waved his hand dismissively. He snapped his bony fingers as if he had a brilliant idea, _“oh, have you met the Pervell Brothers? They are the perfect example of how different things are.”_

“Have I-” Fate choked hard, “have I met your dumb fuck reincarnated minions?” She looked like she was having a hard time breathing. Her beautiful lined face was turning red. “You realize I have spent an incredible amount of time trying to get them out of my hair as fast as possible? Right? I have actively tried to kill them off as fast as I can!”

 _“Oh boo.”_ Death pouted, _“so you locked one up and the other is having a midlife crisis. Not everything is about you. Get a life, Fate. You can’t just plan out every action that a human takes. You need to chill out. Let the mortals make their own choices instead of shoving everything down their throats.”_

“ **I think you need to breathe, Fate.** ” Destiny hummed out, keeping both eye’s shut. A butterfly landed on her nose. Destiny looked serene. “ **You’re looking a little red. Have you tried meditating like I told you?** ”

“I am breathing, thank you.” Fate said with gritted teeth. She was trying, and failing to calm down. But Death knew how to push every single button that Fate had. “I schedule every single lifeform’s role in life. I keep things on track. Every new universe created is accounted for. That is my job.” She said in an even voice. “You know what I do. It is necessary for every universe to exist. And yet, you continue to harass me saying that I am a dictator-”

 _“You are.”_ Death agreed.

“-but I am Fate. I decide everything.” She said, “and you stole a rogue universe from me. Do you understand what that means? Does anybody, in this forsaken place?” She looked around at Destiny, Time, and Magic. Waving her arm at Death’s languishing form on his throne in an angry gesture. Death coyly waved back at her, his hands coming together to make a bony heart shape. “I keep track of all the universes! You don’t care about them. I do all the dirty work, and yet nobody here seems to understand what exactly is happening!”

“Please, enlighten us. This meeting has taken far too long already. Half of a year has passed and I am seconds behind.” Time folded his arms. Destiny just nodded sagely at Fate.

Fate flung her hand out at Death, “he gets to be in charge with every single aspect of that universe! That means,” she looked at Time dead in the eye, “time,” and then glared at Destiny, “destiny,” and then at the formless figure of Magic, “and magic. Total control! He can do anything!”

Death hummed merrily in the background. Watching the beautiful chaos unfolding around him. If only there was a touch of hell fire. Then the place would be hopping! Time’s pocket watch in his hand cracked as the old man finally got the implications of the words. Destiny opened both her glowing white eyes, the butterflies around her fading away as she stopped meditating and paid attention. Magic remained silent. As always.

“No,” breathed Time. “You’ll mess up my calculations!” He pointed an accusing finger at Death.

“He can make it so that the universe is a _half second_ or worse, more, faster than the other universes.” Fate explained to everybody, even though they all knew what it meant. “He can use that universe as a battering ram. Making it collide with neighboring universes. Destroying the whole equilibrium!”

“ **Perhaps letting Death have a universe might be problematic.** ” Destiny admitted, “ **I** **was hoping to watch and see what was going to happen. The destiny could be changed for so many mortals.** ”

“And!” Fate pointed a finger at Destiny this time, “did you know that there is a unique prophecy in that universe? A Seer saw something nobody else has, and by the laws we’ve abided, they ought to be under _your_ power. He’s stealing a future employee from you.”

Destiny frowned, “ **I was unaware of that.** ” Their white eyes turned to Death accusingly, “ **y** **ou know how hard it is to hire newly made entities for my realm, correct? I want them.** ” She snapped her fingers, “ **pronto.** ”

 _“Too bad,”_ Death sang, _“so sad. Plus, I’m pretty sure my newly made minion Mod has a… interesting future with this Seer. He’s mine.”_

Fate spluttered, “you’re not allowed to look into the future!” She waved between her and Destiny, “that’s-that’s our job.”

 _“I can do anything I want in my universe. I have your precious universe code now. Love how you were trying to make my lil baby Potter commit suicide. That’s what you fated for her. If she hadn’t gotten those bindings off by her fifth year she’d,”_ he held up his hand to pretend he had a noose in it and made painful gagging noises. Everybody ignored the poorly made joke. It was made in bad taste anyway. Death, rather effectively, killed the mood.

“That time has passed,” Time said, “I’m certain you can keep your Mod. She’s yours. Keep her as your treat. However, I cannot in good faith, allow you to keep that universe. If you make one single universe hit another, the chain reaction would be catastrophic. The collision would never stop happening.”

Death cackled at that thought.

“ **I agree.** ” Destiny seconded. “ **I want another employee.** ”

Fate nodded with relief, practically sagging onto the floor. “Thank you. Now, I’ll just have my people contact yours and-”

A whisper of a voice cut in. It was laced with the feelings that came with eating a popsicle on a hot day, the warm comfort of the smooth ceramic cup of tea held in old hands, the sweet taste of a ripe fruit that burst on your tongue. 

Magic’s words could never be properly translated into any kind of language. Ever. To try to do so would be like trying to recreate a masterful piece of artwork with only a crayon. Not a Crayola crayon. A RoseArt crayon. It would simply pale in comparison. No, Magic’s words could not be understood by a mortal, but only to those who shared a similar power could. Like those who were in a meeting with them right now.

Fate spluttered and shrieked, “what do you mean _no_?” Destiny and Time both look flabbergasted as well by Magic’s statement.

Death began to laugh again, _“the decision has to be unanimous Fate!”_ He called out, _“it’s mine! And there is nothing you can do about it! Magic said no!”_ He tilted his head back and cackled, the deranged kind that only Bellatrix Lestrange could emulate. The Black family curse did originate from Death in the first place. He was chaos in it’s final form. Deranged and sadistic.

Magic spoke once more, the nostalgic feeling of a long road trip and the quiet wonder of watching a plant grow intertwined in their voice. The room fell silent. Not even Fate’s exclamations of shock came out of the poor woman. The very beings that made up reality itself were shocked into silence.

Death straightened up on his throne, gripping his scythe and seemingly to sober up. He was no longer laughing. Or found glee in this meeting. He leaned forwards, straining. For the first time, Death was here for business. _“Wait,”_ he said, _“what?_ ”

Magic replied again. The fresh smell of rain combined with the scent of old books in a library. The inner peace while completing your hobby. The feeling of lying down in a bed with your children, reading them a bedtime story. The pride of a parent.

It was all that had to be said, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join discord with me and my buddies. We do share a lot of fic recs from various fandoms.  
> [My Discord Invite.](https://discord.gg/3y9W9rK)  
> 


	2. In Which Harriet Exits Stage Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome of the second book! Thank you for those who wished me well on my elopement! It's been pretty great so far.
> 
> TW: Child abuse.

This is not the start of this book. As said in the previous chapter, this book begins, and ends, with an obliviate. The tale that is twisted in this novel has begun years ago, and it takes time to catch up. But this chapter is not meant to dwell on what happened previous, it begins with this scene:

The yellow dim light of a lightbulb framed the entryway, and spilled onto the ground as the door was thrown open. The sound of an angry mans voice bellowing words, as he threw a girl onto the ground of the shag carpeted room. “I won’t stand for this! Never again!” He shook a fist at the child who laid still as a rock on the ground. His only answer was a weak cough that shook the girl clenched hands.

The man yelled even more words, but the girl had stopped listening to the vitriol and hate from her uncle years ago. He stomped his feet, looked like he was considering maybe kicking the fallen girl, before deciding against it. Whatever the child had could be contagious, and it was already bad he had dragged her to her room. Her freakishness could affect him in some way.

When he left, he took the yellowed light with him as he slammed the door and made sure each and every lock was working correctly. The jingle of metal clasps was the last thing the girl heard from him as he stomped away. No doubt to bitch at her aunt about her.

Harriet Potter-Black finally lifted her head up, and a smile cracked it’s way across her face. Her dried and cracked lips bled from the motion, but she didn’t care. Gently getting to her feet, she went to sit on the thin mattress she had. The sweet memory of the last half an hour of shenanigans played through her head, allowing her a reprieve of the pain from her injuries. Both of Harriet’s knees had terrible carpet burns on them along with a patch that curved on her jawline. It could have been so much worse. Almost absentmindedly she raised a fist and let loose a pitiful cough. At this point, she was used to hacking up her lungs.

Tonight had been a good night. All sense of secrecy went out the window as the Dursley’s figured out that Harriet caused a lot of bad luck around them. Causing a window to break, leaving the stove on, or a sudden flicker of lights were not subtle in the slightest. Honestly, Harriet had been trying to get a hold of herself during the beginning, but her magic would lash out and do something unpredictable. Small, nothing horrible, but clearly magical in nature. Even the slightest hint of Harriet's other skills sent the Dursleys on edge. And then, well, Harriet became sick. And her magic stopped attacking everything. It stopped doing anything.

But the deed had been done. The Dursleys were painfully aware that every wrong or unfortunate thing to happen to them was Harriet’s fault. Sometimes, they were wrong. Like when Dudley stubbed his toe on the doorframe. And the other times they were right, because Dudley then stubbed his toe on the doorframe for two weeks straight after that. They would get horribly gassy sometimes. Their eyes might twitch randomly. Or find that the water had been left on all night, leaving the floor covered in three inches of water. The many locks and bolts added to Harriet’s door did not stop her.

And tonight, well. Tonight was only just the cherry on top of a perfect sundae. Uncle Vernon had been trying to impress his boss for a rather important promotion. And Harriet, of course, needed to spoil things. Her boldness in causing chaos had unfurled the longer and harsher her relatives treated her. If they locked her up all day without food, they would find that the fridge had somehow unplugged itself and the groceries were a bit off. If they tried to beat her, then she’d stab them where it would hurt the most. 

Dudley would get horrible pimples for days, from Harriet slathering his pillowcase with magpie oil, a potions ingredient that would clog pores. Aunt Petunia found her hair thinning. Bit by bit, she was eventually going to be bald. It is a shame, since Petunia was fond of putting her hair up in elaborate hairdos. And Uncle Vernon would experience car problems. The battery would die, the gas tank would be empty, the transmission wouldn’t turn, things like that. Bits and pieces that Harriet would chip away.

It was clear now that there was a horrible and terrible battle being waged between them. As long as they didn’t leave Harriet alone, they would find themselves with misfortune. Harriet, at one point feeling particularly brave, had told them point blank. It gave her a black eye for threatening them, but in the end, Harriet got back by making Vernon’s trousers rip at the seam.

At the beginning, there were threats thrown around about how Harriet would never go back to the freak school because she was doing magic, and the Dursleys had gotten a letter stating that it was forbidden to use it at home. After the first week, when Harriet’s magic had gone wild within her, it was a common phrase. But no letter arrived. No summons, no alerts, nothing. All they got was a letter with Harriet’s grades and the required books for the next year. Those threats stopped when it was clear that nothing was going to come from it.

Thankfully, most of the time Harriet didn’t touch her magic in the slightest. She wanted to. There was a powerful desire sometimes to turn Dudley into a pig, to complete the transformation that Hagrid once began. But her wand was held by Madam Pomfrey at Hogwarts. Accidental magic was allowed, but Harriet was a little afraid of trying something more targeted lest it set off the alarms at the ministry. Instead, she used her knowledge and bits and bobs that she had and used them expertly to make her relatives regret the day they decided to hurt her.

Harriet Potter-Black wasn’t the same girl when she left for Hogwarts. And neither was she the same girl who stepped out of platform nine and three quarters with a bruised face and a defeated attitude.

To put it bluntly, the change came from one thing. It wasn’t something silly like courage, or the final act of defiance. No, it was because Harriet was tired.

She was exhausted letting her relatives get away with what they wanted. Harriet was their punching bag. And once she began to cough, well, Harriet grew even more weary. She had very little energy to deal with the muggles. And she didn’t care to grovel anymore. If her aunt had her way, Harriet would have worked until her hands blistered and were raw. Harriet had looked at the mess the house had become since she last visited, and decided that she would rather not clean anything.

Harriet was drained by everything, and the war between her relatives began. And once it started, well. Harriet couldn’t lose. Not by a longshot. She had seen incredible feats of magic, Harriet had actually _died_ and came back, she was unbound and powerful. The ever looming shadow of the Dursleys every summer was pitiful in comparison. Well, this last year she had learned how to get back sneakily at others. Harriet didn’t necessarily take notes during her escapades, but she kept a few in mind as she did her best to torment the muggles.

It was amusing. Probably the best part of Harriet’s summer vacation was watching her relatives react to her mischief. Finding a rat nest in Petunia’s knitting basket was wonderful to witness. Seeing her cousin, the complete idiot, always tripping on the same place on the sidewalk, yet never seeming to learn how to avoid it. Vernon’s confusion and rage over missing tools, displaced items, and random bits and bobs that would appear in their place. He would always find them later, in a place he swore he looked several times. Sometimes Aunt Petunia would find them in the most obvious places, and Vernon would be befuddled by how he missed them.

Honestly, it was like taking candy from a baby. The Dursleys could tell sometimes that Harriet had a hand in the misfortune that they had. Only the big things though, like having a shower that was always too hot or icy cold. Or that the bottle labels had been switched around, and Vernon spraying himself with Petunia’s perfume rather than his cologne. But the smallest things- the things they barely noticed but were annoyed by- those went completely over their head.

Like the jar that never opened, which was conveniently glued shut by Harriet. It was Dudley’s favourite jam. Or the time that Petunia’s roast was just a touch too salty. Or how the bacon never crisped up, leaving it soft and mushy. The inconvenient hole in Petunia’s grocery bag, letting the contents fall onto the ground in a sudden heap. The kink in the outside hose that Vernon would pull straight, but another one would take it’s place. Dudley’s favourite channels were never on the screen when the telly turned on, and he would have to take time to scroll through channels and miss the beginning of his show.

Honestly, her relatives thought they were safe. Harriet was upstairs, behind several locked doors and bars were on her window. There wasn’t a way for her to get out and cause havoc. But they didn’t see the flaw in their plan.

Funny enough, the cat flap was meant for larger felines to pull their girth into the home. And with a little bit of twisting, and angling herself in the right way, Harriet could just pull herself through and had full access to the house. She didn’t even need to touch the locks at all. They gave her a way out.

The war progressed. Vernon’s patience was ending, and became harsher. Harriet raised the stakes.

And then tonight happened. And oh, how it had been so simple to mess up the carefully laid plans of her relatives. They had one motto in life, and Harriet was the antithesis of it. Be normal. They want to be normal. Average. Medium. Blending in with society. That was what the Dursleys wanted to be. And Harriet was often the opposite.

Ducking into the kitchen and throwing in a pinch of yellowdove salt into the wineglasses of the guests had been easy. Resetting the timer on the roast had only taken seconds. Pulling the wine bottles and decanter of alcohol was easy since they were already out. Dumping half of the contents out, and replacing it with water was done within a minute. Switching the salt shaker with sugar, replacing the vanilla with soy sauce, and rearranging the chairs so the uncomfortable ones were given to Vernon’s boss and wife.

Ten minutes of free unrestrained access. Unnoticed. Her relatives were busy elsewhere that day, and it was predictable. And Harriet crept back up to her room, an apple and a handful of bread slices in her grip. The job had been complete. She leaned up against the vent and listened as the Dursleys bustled around and finally, the show began. Harriet couldn’t hear clear concise words, only the tone and volume of those in the dining room. But she leaned back onto the wall, closed her eyes to imagine the scene below.

Aunt Petunia, with her red lips that were a bit smeared after kissing Dudley one too many times. Dudley, with a bulging white shirt and a bowtie, his hair practically glued down in a sensible part. Uncle Vernon, with his hair mirroring Dudley and a nervous flush on his face. The three of them were a part of a theater production. Vernon would get the door, Aunt Petunia would carry the roast in from the kitchen, and Dudley would offer to take their coats. (Not that Petunia and Vernon had been practicing this scene earlier, loudly and repeatedly. Plus, Harriet had grown increasingly spiteful the longer she heard Dudley in his ‘perfect angel’ voice asking, “may I take your coat madam?” outside of her door.)

Just like the Dursleys wanted, their scene was flawless. Aunt Petunia walked in and set the roast onto the table, smiling at her guests. Dudley spoke his one sentence without stumbling once, and Vernon was greeting his boss like an old friend. Harriet let them have it. Lull them into a sense of security.

The boss and his wife’s appearance would remain a mystery to Harriet. But she imagined the boss was like Argus Filch and the wife would be a younger blonde McGonagall. The two of them would come in, sit in the nice chairs, and the first attack would strike. Petunia offered them a glass of wine, holding a bottle of whatever expensive grape juice muggles liked. It was special, and she would pour them a generous amount in their glasses. Uncle Vernon will lob a funny little joke that he heard at a neighborhood barbecue. Harriet heard laughter downstairs and figured the joke had actually worked. Huh, didn’t think that would ever happen.

Then the blonde McGonagall would sip on her wine, and so would Filch with perhaps the whiskey that Vernon would definitely be drinking. It would be fairly obvious that it was watered down, but Harriet didn’t hear mention of it. Muggles had their own rules of politeness and sometimes that they obeyed more than of the actual law. It was going to be a rather horrible dinner for everybody involved and Harriet wanted to make it memorable. And them being polite about everything was going to drag it out longer.

The first and second strikes against the Dursleys came and went without notice. But Harriet still gleefully smiled as she heard the low murmurs of conversation downstairs, and then the sound of cutlery clicking against the china.

Blonde McGonagall would take a bit of the roast first. Harriet imagined, her face twisting in a faux smile. Doing her best to chew and swallow the food in her mouth. It would be incredibly rude to spit it out then and there. First and foremost, the roast had been in the oven far too long. It was dry, nearly on the edge of being burned. It wasn’t a lush and juicy roast that Petunia had planned, and it was still edible but barely so. That would have been enough for anybody with a vendetta. But Harriet also spiked the guests wine glasses with yellowdove salt. 

Yellowdove salt was a marvelous and easily overlooked mineral in the wizarding community. It hailed from Egypt, where it could be found in large deposits underneath magical communities. It simply grew around the ley lines, and it was found to be a rather useful but basic tool. For the most part, yellowdove salt was a key ingredient with antidotes for certain potions. It also helped the user, if having consumed some of it, be able to actually taste and identify the poison if they ate it. Many Egyptian doctors were hailed across the world for being able to figure out what poison was which and administering the antidote. That, and yellowdove salt was a great for taking the moisture out of fresh and wet items, naturally soaking up the dampness and making very useful for preserving things. Harriet once read a potions journal that both praised the yellowdove salt, and condemned it for it’s drawbacks. (It also mentioned that there was a very good food stall in the Egyptian magical district that could make the most perfectly seasoned jerky. They claimed it was because of the yellowdove salt, but the author made it clear that it was impossible for anything to taste good with the mineral on it.)

Yellowdove salt had a somewhat unusual effect on it. You see, it is called salt because it is safe to eat and has no known adverse effects when combined with other potions. But doesn’t strictly qualify it to taste good. Rather, it has a very mellow and slight undertone to it. Barely noticeable when combined with food.

But the magical part comes in. You see, it likes to flip a person’s taste buds around. Whatever is sweet is now sour. Whatever is savory is now… unsavory. To put it lightly, it makes a perfectly good meal turn into some sort of rotten garbage. Harriet had tried it once. And after that, she was wary of eating salad ever again. It just wasn’t… _right._

She leaned her head back, and hummed. Oh, the dominos were lining up just right. And with a little tap from Harriet, they began to fall. Hitting the next. Cascading. And the Dursleys' plans slowly and methodically fell apart. 

The conversation downstairs lulled. Filch and blonde McGonagall had already perhaps stopped eating. Even the wine tasted sour, and Harriet had no idea what the whiskey would taste like now. Had Petunia picked up on the fact that they were no longer eating? Harriet smiled, as the dining room below grew quiet.

Did the guests show their discomfort on their faces about the food? Perhaps Filch had taken a napkin and discreetly spat into it. Or maybe they subtly put their forks and knives down, and used an object on the table to disguise their full plates? There was a spatter of conversation downstairs, but nothing enthusiastic as before.

“Oh, why don’t I bring out dessert?” Aunt Petunia would be trying to save face. She would show them hospitality. The finest that can be found in Privet Drive. If Filch and McGonagall didn’t like her roast, there would be no way they would hate her cake with homemade vanilla frosting.

Dudley would agree, almost immediately. Perhaps too fast, but his little brain couldn’t handle the thought of being patient. Harriet listened to the 'oohs' and 'awws' of the guests downstairs as Petunia brought out the tripled layered cake with strawberries on top. It was impressive.

And now the tables had been turned. Harriet could only imagine the baffled and confused looks her relatives would have. As they took bites of the cake, and found that the frosting was practically inedible. Who would have taken a bite first? Filch? Or one of the Dursleys?

If it was a Dursley, they would, without a doubt, try to stop the catastrophe from happening. Taking away the horrible cake from the guests, and that would probably be the end of that joke. But if it was Vernon’s boss who took a bite first…

The faint sound of, “oh this is absolutely delightful,” came from what Harriet presumed to be blonde McGonagall. _Perfect_. Harriet had to press her hand against her mouth to stop the giggles from escaping.

The guests thought it was great. The Dursleys thought it to be garbage. And best of all, Harriet would likely bet that Dudley would-

“This tastes awful!” A whine pitched the air. It was loud enough for Harriet to hear it clearly. “What did you put in this?” There was a retch.

What a wonderful night.

* * *

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Harriet had a hand in their ruined evening. Hell, it didn’t take a Dursley level of intelligence to draw that conclusion. With a few rug burns and a good shake, Vernon left Harriet in her prison. It couldn’t have been worse, but Harriet’s grating edge of not giving up made Vernon think second thoughts these days. Which was a win. Even though it was an uphill fight.

That night, after drifting off into a fitful and tiring sleep, Harriet tried to regain some of her energy. The day's events had drained her, and she had little energy to spare. It was a ritual by now that Harriet curled up underneath the sheets because suddenly everything was terrifyingly cold and she couldn’t get warm. And then, three seconds later, she had to toss the blankets off due to the blistering heat. There was a terrible raw sensation from her chest. It wasn’t her lungs. Nor her heart or any other organ that she could think of. But it burned within her. It made her gasp for air, and cough constantly.

And that wasn’t the worst part about the summer. Oh no, it wasn’t the Dursleys, it wasn’t being locked up, it wasn’t being starved. It wasn’t even being sick. The worst, was the dreams. And they haunted her.

Shadows moved on the walls. Sneaking. Lurking. Crawling up to reach her.

Sometimes Harriet thought she saw Snape looking at her from the corner of the room. His long beak-like nose peered out of the shadows as his dark eyes glinted with malice. Sometimes she could hear him too.

“Miss Potter,” he would say in his snipping voice. T’sking her name like a sharp crack of a whip. “You were a disappointment in class, but now you take it to new heights. Laying around, making your family cater to your very whims. No wonder you fail so often. You are just as lazy and thick headed as your father.” He would say things like this. And Harriet would tremble, unable to figure out if it was from her illness or from his words.

And sometimes.

Sometimes Harriet would see him do worse things.

A knife glinted. It was her knife. The shiv she made from a nicked silver knife. Harriet was intimate with how sharp it was. He held it loosely in his hands. Snape had a ring on. Harriet always refused to look at him in the face. So his hands were a sight she knew well. A thick black silver ring, with a dark opal stone upon it. His long fingers, sometimes looked like claws, were always a sign of omens. Snape would peer down at her, with his black eyes glinting from the moonlight. And say, “I must admit, you’ve done the impossible.” His voice was a soft whisper. “You’ve actually become useful. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the potion you will be used for will come out _flawless_.”

Harriet would wake up most of the time before the knife touched her.

Most of the time.

Knowing how to twist, decapitate, eviscerate, and so much more for her potions made the dreams horribly realistic. But they were just that, dreams. And when the morning came, Harriet could see the sunlight and the shadows would drift away back to the darkness of her mind.

Tonight, Harriet prepared for the worst. As she did, like always, with falling asleep these days. She tossed and turned, sweated like an onion and smelled like one too, and wished that for once she could sleep peacefully.

The sound of the locks broke the silence. And Harriet looked up at the door with bleary eyes. A simple glance at the window showed that the sun was far from rising. Was this another figment of her imagination?

But with a searing pain to her eyes as the light was flicked on, Harriet realized that it was not a fantasy. Uncle Vernon stood, dressed and looked at her with steel in his eyes. There was a blur of motion. She was pulled up and down the stairs. Forced to put on shoes, and walked outside onto the dewy grass towards the car. Then she was shoved into the backseat, and Vernon was behind the wheel. There was no exchange of words, no insults, nothing. One second she was in her room, the next, on the roads as lights flickered past.

It was surreal. Harriet was absolutely bewildered. Her fever addled her brain. This felt like an out of body experience, and as much as she’d like to say that she was sharp as a tack at any time, this took the wind out of her sails. She hardly ever was taken anywhere. The car was something that was never allowed for her. There were twists, and there were turns. The only light coming from the street lamps above, turning the dark buildings and pavement into orange lit shadows.

A drizzle of rain pattered down on the windows, and it was a long time before the car stopped. Vernon halted the car angrily, and closed his door with a bang. Without a beat, he pulled open the door next to Harriet and hauled her out. It wasn’t like she weighed anything significant, but it was still pretty terrifying. With a forceful turn, he pressed her up against the wall, the stone sticking into Harriet’s shirt and biting into her back.

“Now listen here,” his hot breath was inches away from her face, and Harriet wrinkled her nose. “We want you _gone_. And you will stay that way. Don’t contact us. Don’t even write those blasted letters to us.” He shook her, her head already pounding increasing it’s tempo. “We don’t want anything to do with you. And if you try to even stick your head in Surrey again I will know, and I will do _anything_ to get rid of you again. Is that _clear?_ ”

“Crystal.” Harriet bit out, and Vernon dropped her onto the wet pavement. Her shoulder banged against the wall and her hands gained a few extra scrapes, and there was no doubt that she was bleeding. She didn’t look up as the car door closed, and the car lights turned on and drifted away onto another street.

The rain was still beating down on the ground, and Harriet crawled to the nearest dumpster and took shelter under a metal sheet. It didn’t stop the cold from crawling up her spine and settling into her bones. But it was enough for her to tilt her head back, and stare off into the distance. She weakly coughed, tired and unable to put any real effort into the motion.

Tomorrow, she’ll figure out where she is. But for now, all Harriet wanted to do was wallow. She was free. But at the price of a roof over her head. It was okay. She’ll survive. And when Hogwarts comes in a month and a half, she’ll be safe. It’ll just be a bit rough until then. But Harriet had survived worse things. Hell, she also didn’t survive worse things. Her fingers touched her mothers trunk in her pocket, and she clutched it.

Good riddance, anyways.

* * *

There was a timid knock on the door. Ignotus, otherwise known as Iggy, was practically buried in paperwork. Her office was once rather intimidating. Furnished with leather furniture, and bookshelves lined the walls. Lots of beautiful pictures of torture performed on the souls who tried to invent immortality hung on the wall. She also kept a small portrait of her old life, a large family of people who lived hundreds of years ago. They were all escorted to heaven by Iggy, every single decedent who lived a long and full life had that honor. They were dwindling. But family was family. Her office had once been made for a fully grown man, but she was confined into a rather diminutive form of a seven-year-old girl. Perfect for chaos and shenanigans. But this wasn’t the time for it. No, Ignotus had to work. And work she did. Her once impressive office was lined wall to wall with stacks of papers. On every shelf, table, covering every inch of the floor, with the exception of a small path for her to walk in, papers towered above her. Her desk was the only thing that was neat, but every few minutes there would be a small _pop_ and another small packet of papers would appear. Iggy simply grabbed it and threw it onto the nearest pile.

A faint knock came again. And Iggy ignored it. A minute passed, and this time the knock came a bit louder. And again. A bit louder. Finally Iggy’s attention span broke, and she glanced up irritated.

“What?” She snapped, she was practically suffocating in her office. And she needed to stay concentrated in order to keep up with the demand. A second lost was a second she would need to take away from her lunch break. And if anybody bothered her, it usually meant that Death Incorporated was burning down from hellfire and Death only allowed Iggy to hold onto the keys for the fire extinguisher. _'If any Joe off the street can smother a fire then it isn't as fun for me,'_ was Death's excuse when Iggy tried to at least let the other managers have a key.

So, knocking on the door meant not only was seconds being lost- but Iggy would inevitably be asked to leave her office and deal with the problem. Knocking was not a good thing.

The door opened slightly and stopped as it knocked into a stack of papers, and a small voice said, “I have an interview with you?”

Iggy paused. Interview. Which meant somebody was looking for work. Another minion to boss around. Which meant less work for her. It was like salvation was beaming down onto her. It was always a standing order in the front desk at Death Incorporated that if anybody dared to inquire about hiring they were sent _immediately_ to her to have an interview.

“Yes, come in.” Iggy shoved the most recent pile of paperwork that appeared on her desk to the side. It would have crashed to the floor if it wasn’t already preoccupied by other documents. It just created a landslide of parchment that stopped as suddenly as it came, as there simply was no room for it to continue to slide. The door slid open until it came to a halting stop when it hit a large pile of papers. “Sorry about the mess.” Iggy would have also stood up and welcomed in the poor soul, but she had essentially trapped herself behind her desk. Any sudden move the paperwork would come down on top of her. And Death would usually pop in, laugh and point at her, before going away. Ass.

A small figure slid into the room. They were wearing a rumpled suit, patchy and old fashioned. A bowtie was affixed to their neck. Their hair was short and messy, but it looked like they had tried to comb it out. They carried a suitcase, which was old and looked to be incredibly beaten up. To Iggy’s eyes, she saw an innocent soul who came to be enslaved.

“Come in, have a seat.” Iggy said, then noticed that all of the other chairs in the room were already buried underneath the endless piles of parchment. So she grabbed an errant piece of paper and with a flick of her hand she transformed it into a chair. It wasn’t very good, and with the small space available it was the size of a child's toy chair. The new slave, _cough cough,_ interviewee came in and sat down, handing Iggy their resume. Their knees bent forward as they sat on the small little chair.

Iggy scanned it over. Worked in the Office, blah blah blah. Couple of eras. Nothing much to really sneeze at. “So tell me, have you a lot of experience in killing people?” Iggy asked, as casually as she could. 

“Erm,” the being shuffled their feet around, “no?”

“Would that be a problem?” Iggy responded, not even blinking at the response. Her mouth was actually salivating at the idea of a new minion. Actual spit was appearing. She had to check if she was drooling. This was literally the best thing that had happened to her in this _lifetime._ Screw the new universe, this was all she had ever hoped and dreamed for.

“Maybe?”

“Good, you’re hired.” Iggy said, throwing the resume over her shoulder. It crashed into another pile of papers, which then tumbled down into a horrible crash. Errant pages flew into the air. Whatever. “I’m Iggy, you’ll be my secretary, and you start _now._ Pull your chair closer and grab the nearest stack of papers. It’s nice to meet you...” Even though she had just seen the name of the fledgling being, she had already forgotten it.

“Entity.” They held out a hand, and Iggy shook it. “Now, does it matter if I write it out in demonic language, doctors handwriting, or in Russian cursive?”

“Eh, it’s the same thing.” Iggy shrugged, “you can hardly read it anyway. Just check boxes and throw bad people into hell and good people into heaven.”

“What if they’re medium people?”

“Then they go to the Chuck E Cheese realm. It’s not good. It isn’t bad. It’s medium amount of torture. Plus the option of arcade games.” Iggy handed the Entity a pen. “You can take a lunch break in a month, coffee breaks every weekend. We’ll give you a room to live in. But you’ll hardly ever spend time there.”

“I have a cat?” The Entity responded.

“Then we’ll hire them too.” Iggy said, “now get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think will happen to Harriet while she is on the streets? Nothing sinister... probably. 
> 
> (No cats were harmed upon hiring.)


End file.
